Quiet the Fury
by flaxonwaxonjackson
Summary: Watson and Holmes try to deal with a case gone tragically wrong.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first attempt at a fanfic, and I felt compelled to share it. Lots of angst. Hoping to add chapters fairly quickly.  
_

She tries to brace herself, but he has too much momentum. Her back strikes the wall, sending a jolt through her body that violently knocks the air from her lungs. Her hands are still clenched to his wrist, but she's no longer pushing against him. She feels pressure at her abdomen. She does not look down, but only stares at him for a long moment, before he pulls back his arm.

The knife exits her body roughly. A cry of pain is caught in her throat, the sensation of pressure giving way to sharp pain. She tries to breathe, but can only take in a shallow gasp. Warmth spreads down her abdomen as blood flows from her wound. She staggers, and covers the wound with her hands. He is breathing heavily, his eyes focused on the growing spot of red on her shirt. He seems surprised, unprepared.

Joan blinks rapidly and begins to slide down the wall towards the floor. She is dizzy, and her legs are failing her. There's a burning in her abdomen that's growing with a ferocious intensity. She falls to the floor, landing on her side. He drops to his knees, both hands clutching the knife. She watches as he raises it to stab her again.

There's a voice behind him. The man with the knife turns his head. He found them. Of course he found them. The man with the knife rises from his crouched position in front of her and lunges towards the voice. There is a struggle.

Her attacker falls to the floor. Joan cannot tell if he is dead. Sherlock's familiar figure looms above her. She watches his eyes. She watches his mouth as he speaks into his cell phone. His voice is faint. The burning is unbearable. She is going to lose consciousness soon.

She feels his hands on her face. He gently moves her hand where it lay draped over her abdomen. She watches his face intently. He places both his hands over the wound and presses down. She cries out in pain. Her hand reaches up and grabs the front of his shirt. She sees that he is afraid. There is too much blood. She won't make it, and she is afraid of what that means for him.

She clenches the fabric in her hand. "This wasn't your fault," she hisses. Please let him remember that. His lips are parted, and he is crying. It is quiet and dark. Her grip loosens. She desperately wants to stay with him. Never enough time. There's never enough time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Second chapter of first attempt at fanfic. Oh, the angst! Thank you all who read the first part. I've never had so many people read something I had written that wasn't a company wide memo. It's intimidating and amazing._

When he reached her, she was pale and trembling. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. He called for an ambulance and then dropped to the floor by her side. He gently took her face in his hands to check her airway. She was still conscious, and she met his gaze with a mixture of relief and regret.

He moved his gaze down to the wound she covered with her hand. He gingerly set her hand aside and froze as he realized the extent of the injury. She was bleeding out. She was already going into shock. It was unlikely that she would live long enough for the paramedics to arrive. His throat tightened. He took a breath and willed himself to take action. Unlikely was not impossible, and she was a supremely stubborn individual.

He placed both hands on the wound and applied pressure. She cried out in pain. Tears stung his eyes. He breathed through his nose. "I'm so sorry, Watson," he murmured. Her eyes were focused on his face. He returned her gaze as best he could through the blur of his gathering tears. She reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt with a bloodied hand. He marveled at and feared the strength of her grasp.

"This wasn't your fault," she said to him with difficulty. Wasn't. The word made him flinch. She believed this was already over. He stared back at her open mouthed as she struggled to catch her breath, as if to say more. But she did not. Instead, her eyes began to lose their focus. Her lids drooped, and he felt her release the front of his shirt. "Watson," he called firmly, " Watson, keep looking at me. Watson! Wat-"

She had stopped breathing. "No no no no no," he muttered as he moved his hands up to her neck. Her pulse was barely perceptible, and soon that would be gone as well. He quickly pulled the scarf from his neck and wrapped it about her waist, tying off a knot in an attempt to maintain pressure on the wound. He then tilted her head back, pressed her nose shut with his left hand, and held her jaw with his right as he placed his mouth on hers and breathed. His hands left streaks of blood on her face and neck.

He had started compressions by the time the EMTs arrived. He refused to cede his place by her side to them for a few seconds as he pumped her chest, but then pulled back. He watched as they intubated her and strapped her to the backboard. He rode with her in the ambulance and watched silently as they continued CPR, as they cut off her clothing and hooked her up to an IV.

He followed her as far as he could into the hospital. He stopped and stared after her when he could go no further as she was rushed to surgery. He stood where he had stopped and stared after her long after she was gone. He stood until he was gently guided by a nurse to a chair in a waiting area. He sank into the seat, staring at the space in front of him.


	3. Chapter 3

_I struggled with this chapter. I had some more explanation as to Watson's behavior, but I ended up cutting it out and reserving it for a future chapter. Anyways..._

There was no thought. There was vague awareness. There was roaring in his ears. He was quiet and still in his chair. He rested his hands on his thighs. Dried blood caked under his fingernails and colored his hands.

Gregson was sitting next to him, and had been for some time. Sherlock suddenly breathed deeply, as if awaking. He had been vaguely aware of Gregson's presence, but seemed to just now realize it. He blinked his eyes several times. He turned his head slightly towards Gregson and nodded, averting eye contact. It was both an acknowledgement of his colleague and an expression of gratitude to his friend.

He thought of the times in which Watson had sat next to him in this way. She had needled and pried at him to open up to her, to express things that he did not want to share. But, she also knew enough of hurt to recognize when she needed to fade into the background as a silent presence, to become a figurative and literal shoulder to lean on. It was what made her so good at being a sober companion.

_This wasn't your fault._ His stomach turned as he remembered her words. He failed to see how it was not his fault. He considered the choices he had made that had led them to this point, and found fault with each one. Connections that should have been made, observations that had been misinterpreted, instincts that had been ignored. And how, upon hearing Joan's muffled sobs from behind the closed bedroom door last night, he had stood outside in the hallway, hesitating. He had rarely given a second thought to invading her privacy in the past. But, this time was different. It was rare, but he knew what it was to fail on a case. Substance abuse had been his primary coping mechanism in the past. As such, he felt ill equipped to offer her any sort of comfort.

It was very obvious now that her pain stemmed from more than the case. It was rooted in the past, to the one subject he dared never broach with her. The inescapable truth was that she had needed him. He could have offered her something, anything. But he had not. And for this failing, this weakness, he felt deeply ashamed of himself.

"I suppose-," Sherlock's started in a rough voice, "I suppose you'll be needing a statement."

"It can wait," Gregson replied after a moment. Another minute passed before he shifted slightly in his seat and turned his head to the distraught detective. "Why didn't she call anyone before she went in the building?" Holmes considered the question. Guilt and desperation had led Watson to a place of mental instability that he had underestimated. Even so, he could not imagine that she would knowingly enter a building which housed a violent criminal by herself without telling anyone else.

"I believe that she had been searching the neighborhood for quite some time before entering that particular building," He had estimated that she had left the brownstone over three hours before he awoke and realized that she was gone. "Obviously, she must have suspected that it was a possibility, but..." He let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing, "I would not have found her so quickly had it not been for Teresa."

He straightened in his chair and looked directly at Gregson "Teresa...?"

Gregson nodded, "We got her. She's okay." Okay was a relative term, Gregson thought. They had found the teenager in hysterics at the 24 hour mini mart down the block. The store owner had called the police and draped his blue hoodie over the bare legged girl's shoulders. Her injuries were minor, but to say that she was okay seemed presumptuous.

"And Siar?" Sherlock questioned.

"Upstairs," Gregson answered, "He hasn't come to yet." In subduing the man, Sherlock used what might have been considered excessive force, though Sherlock felt that he had used an admirable amount of restraint in the encounter.

Whatever came of this, it would not have been for nothing, but the thought brought him little comfort. Now and again, he considered the prospect of Joan not being in his life. He tried not to dwell on it too often or long, as the thought was always accompanied by an overwhelming loneliness, a void that pulled in his chest. He had felt that void once before, and it had nearly swallowed him.


End file.
